Professionally Not From Here
by nick48654
Summary: A cross-time traveler arrives in Zootopia, and with the aid of either post-singularity technology or out-and-out magic, is adapted to the environment; he encounters Nick and Judy, and aids them before "moving on".
1. Chapter 1

Professionally Not From Here

 **Author's Note:**

This started as a writing exercise in first person viewpoint and as a "palate cleanser for me to work on between working on other stories that are in my Zootopia story arc sequence. This is, in effect, an alternate universe story to my other stories – and a bit of an experiment. So … get ready for a sometimes bumpy ride.

 **Summary**

A cross-time traveler arrives in Zootopia, and with the aid of either post-singularity technology or out-and-out magic, is adapted to the environment; he encounters Nick and Judy, and aids them before "moving on".

Chapter 1: Entry Point and First Moves

I dove through what looked to be a yellow portal; anything was better than where I had been. The mushroom clouds in the distance told me that the world I'd been on was in the process of self-destructing; I didn't need to hang around for the inevitable endgame.

First item of business on the other side was to look back at the portal I'd just entered through; true to form, it was a dark angry red. Where I'd come from was now "officially" a world where only brilliant actions would likely result in survival. Here, wherever "here" was, I could at least count on intelligent actions producing positive results and only stupid actions resulting in an "end of life" situation developing.

Second item of business: verify that I still had the portal locator and the ring that could keep me alive if things went South. The ring was on the middle finger of my right hand, the portal locator now looked like a last-century smartphone. _Protective camouflage? Oh well, I've never really understood the magic – or technology – behind those two items. Clarke's Law_ _ **[1]**_ _applies, I guess._

Second item of business: identify the locale, if possible. I stood up, and looked around. I'd arrived in an alleyway – there were tall buildings to either side – they had the look of brownstones. In the distance, I could see tall towers. Hence, likely a civilized society; if they can build large multistoried structures, they have to have fairly good engineers. They may not have decent sewer systems or air conditioning, but they should at least have civil engineers worthy of the name.

The next item of business? Self-examination. On the other side of the portal I'd been a biological uplift – two meters of genetically engineered lupine killing machine. I'd been through so many forms before that I couldn't even remember how I'd started my life. It was too many years and portals back. A quick glance at my hand showed three fingers and an opposable thumb, a hand covered by fine white fur on the back, and leathery pads on the fingers and palm. Another quick check and I verified that I was male. Somehow, through all the different body forms I'd taken courtesy of the portals, I was always male. It did minimize my personal adjustment shock – bad enough that I'd been everything from a walking, talking carpet to a hairless ape to an intelligent cephalopod on a water world, but at least I'd always been male.

I searched my pockets; there was the mirror I'd acquired forty (or was it fifty?) portals back. Enough physical artifacts remained unchanged across even the most common adaptive portals (which seemed to change anything biological to "fit" in the destination world) that I'd thought it a good idea to acquire a small collection of "tools". I saw a muzzle, a white fur face, and stubby ears. The pupils were circular and dark. I glanced down; I was wearing a tightly fitting vest and a dark jacket and pants – no shoes. Digitigrade feet, with pads that felt tough and leathery; might be good enough to walk on hot pavement, but I wouldn't want to walk on glass (if there was glass here). Tentative classification: Vulpes lagopus sapiens.

I checked under the jacket; there was a shoulder holster, and a weapon. I pulled it out; it looked to be a semi-automatic pistol. I tried what looked like a magazine release, and was rewarded by the clip springing out into a waiting hand. I looked at the bullets; they looked to be between 10 and 12 millimeter, and hollow point at a guess, looking at the tips. I shuddered; if people here went around like this customarily, it must be something like the wild west of fiction, or the Los Angeles of 1930s detective fiction. I reinserted the magazine, and checked to make sure that the safety (or what I assumed to be the safety) was on.

I checked the inside suit pockets, and found two small wallets. The one was a money wallet – the paper currency looked similar to any of the bills I'd used on a dozen other worlds. My adapted eyes and mind could read off the denominations; a quick count showed I had roughly two hundred dollars. If this wasn't a hyperinflationary economy, I could at least count on food (and possibly shelter) for a few days at least. There were plastic cards – one with what looked like an embedded chip, and "ZootopiaCityBank MasterCard" label, along with a series of embossed numbers. A credit card. And a driver's license, issued by the DMV. The other wallet held an ID badge of some sort – the face on the card looked much like the face I'd seen in the mirror, and identified the bearer as "Joseph Reynard, Senior Field Agent, MBI Zootopia Field Office". Ok, I had a name, an ID card, money, a driver's license – with an address! – and presumably a job. I didn't know what MBI stood for, but first guess was "something bureau of investigation". At least, that's what "Field Agent" suggested to me. And presumably an officer of the court in some sense – a LEO (law enforcement officer).

A bit more checking found a flimsy – apparently an e-mail printout, specifying a change of assignment – assigning "Senior Field Agent Reynard" to the Zootopia Field office. Assuming that the date in the text was recent, I could assume that "I" had been recently assigned to work in this field office. So "I" likely won't be expected to know any of the other agents there. It would likely be safe – at least for a few days, though my lack of knowledge could easily trip me up if I stayed too long.

Clipped to my belt was a slim metallic-seeming hollow rod, with an emission bell at one end and a small stud (trigger) just where a thumb would comfortably rest. I patted the rod, happy that it had made the transition (apparently) unchanged by the transmogrification that the portal system and imposed on me to "fit in" on this new world. A magnetic pulse generator, guaranteed (in theory, at least) to render almost any chordate lifeform unconscious for between five and thirty minutes. Of course, it tended to disrupt electrical systems in the vicinity, but if I have to escape and evade under cover of weapons fire, I'll trade collateral damage to equipment for possibly severe injury to sophonts; call me weak if you want, I don't like the idea of harming other intelligent life forms any more than necessary.

I took a deep breath. My sense of smell was much more sensitive in this form – there were a myriad of scents on the slight breeze moving through the alleyway. I whispered to myself, "faint heart nor false heart ne'er won fair maid," and strode out of the alleyway into the bustling city.

The sidewalks were easily five paces wide. But they were crowded – and most of the pedestrians were much taller than me. I turned with the flow of the crowd – and spotted a running figure out of the corner of my eye; I turned back.

"Police! Freeze, you stupid weasel!" was shouted by someone obscured by the crowd. But the herd of pedestrians parted, and an honest-to-pete bipedal weasel came charging up, twisting this way and that to thread its way through the crowd. It was holding a satchel to its chest, and it had a nasty look on its face that just screamed "kick me". At the last second, just as it was trying to dodge past me, it turned back and screamed at its pursuer, "Catch me if you can, flatfoot!"

I executed a Muay Thai style leg sweep that caught the back of the weasel's legs, and watched the supposed thief's feet go out from under him; his feet went up, and his head went down. The back of his head bounced off the pavement, and the satchel he'd been clutching to his chest burst open, spilling several plastic bags filled with a blue crystalline material on the sidewalk. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the ID badge and flipped it open, pointing it in the direction the mustelid had been running from. I began checking the poor creature – it was still breathing, there was a pulse when I checked at its throat, and it did not appear as though there was any significant bleeding. It didn't look as though it was dead, but it also didn't appear as though he was still conscious. Possible concussion, but I'd let the local medicos deal with it.

While I was examining the mustelid, the presumed LEO charged up. "What are you doing here…Senior Field Agent Reynard?" I turned, and stared down at the little rabbit. It was definitely an example of the theorem that small mammals specialize in "cute" – that being how they survived to become large mammals. The rabbit sported a badge, what looked like a Kevlar belt, and a neoprene suit. The nameplate read, "Lt. J. Hopps".

"Well, Lieutenant, much though I'm against intruding in someone else's jurisdiction, I thought that you might appreciate an 'assist'," I said, as I pocketed my ID again.

"What did you do to him?" Hopps said.

"I didn't do anything to hurt him. The sidewalk hurt him," I couldn't help chuckling. "I executed a leg sweep – I managed to time it just right!" The diminutive officer glared at me, and I took my hand out of my jacket, carefully, before showing both hands to Hopps. "Your collar…"

"My what?!" Hopps shouted.

"Sorry – your arrest. Slang term."

Hopps' foot drummed on the sidewalk for perhaps a long five count, before Hopps sighed, and pulled out what looked like a wrap strap, rolled the mustelid over on its stomach, and bound his wrists together behind its back. "What is the Mammal Bureau of Investigation doing, sticking its muzzle into ZPD business, anyway? Why are you here?"

"Just walking around – I'm 'professionally not from here'. Just playing tourist right now," I said. Entirely the truth – not all the truth, but nothing false in my statement. So it was easy for me to keep what I imagined was an innocent expression on my face. "You might want to call for an ambulance, though. Your 'little friend' here hit his head rather hard when he landed."

Another officer came charging up at this point; a bipedal red fox, who's ID proclaimed him to be "Officer N. P. Wilde".

"Who are you?" it called out.

I looked the fox and took a deep breath before answering. If the scent was the same as on the last portal-world, "it" was most likely male. "I'm Joseph Reynard, MBI. I take it that you are lieutenant Hopps' partner?" I held out my hand.

"Officer Nick Wilde," he said.

Officer Wilde took my hand and shook it. His handshake was a firm, but he didn't try to crush my hand in his. So, not someone likely to play dominance games.

"Carrots," Wilde said, "looks like Weaselton had a slipup – what happened here?"

I wiggled my eyebrow whiskers. _Carrots?_

The rabbit sighed. "Senior Field Agent Reynard helped us – he took Weaselton out with a 'leg sweep'. Call a bus, would you, Nick? It looks like Weaselton bounced his head on the pavement going down," 'Carrots' held up one hand. There was blood on her fingers and palm.

"Damn! I didn't mean to hurt the perp that much!" I said.

The rabbit turned back to face me while Wilde called in to their dispatcher. "Scalp wound – they bleed copiously. It didn't feel like he cracked anything, but … it doesn't hurt to be careful with head injuries."

"Agreed, Lieutenant. But I didn't get your first name."

"It's Judith – Judy."

"Then 'Carrots' is a nickname?"

The lapine doe – now identified as such – sighed. "Nick has some habits that aren't quite as endearing as others."

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Be glad you have someone to watch your back – partners that are good are worth their weight in precious metals."

Judy crunched her face up; idiomatic expressions don't always translate well – I'd have to be careful. "Odd way of putting it," she said.

"Bus is on the way now, Carrots. ETA five minutes. Agent Reynard?" Wilde turned to face me, "could you answer a few questions? We'll need to file a pile of paperwork about this – your intervention, and…"

I held up one hand to stop the pending avalanche of words. "Understood. Paperwork is the bane of all LEOs. I'll have my own to file, no doubt, about this 'little' matter." I checked my other coat pocket, and found a small notepad and a ball point pen. "Your names again? And spelling, so that I can get things down correctly?"

"Can we trade notes when we're done?" Wilde asked.

"I see no reason why you can't have a copy of mine when I'm done."

"And we'll want you to file some reports at ZPD Precinct 1 station house…" Hopps said.

"No problem."

#

The ambulance took less than the projected five minutes to reach our location, and the EMTs had "Weaselton" on a gurney and into the 'bus' in less than thirty seconds. Lieutenant Hopps told them to take the perp to the prison ward of the local hospital and directed her partner to ride along to oversee the processing there. From the sound of her, her partner was definitely in the dog house over something. That left me standing there with a distinctly annoyed looking rabbit.

"A problem, Lieutenant? Perhaps I could be of some assistance?"

"Don't need you, MBI-man," she said her back to me.

"Sounds like there's a problem to me, Lieutenant. Were you on foot patrol?"

"Yes, and we're twelve blocks from the station house. Does the MBI bother with PT for its personnel?"

I chuckled – I couldn't help it. "You've just had a foot pursuit, and I'm fresh. Care to wager which one of us could reach your station first at a dead run?"

The lapine doe turned to face me, smirked, and looked up at me. "And what would you wager?"

"If I win, you ease off on your partner – don't snarl at him for doing what you've asked him to do. If you win, I fill out whatever requested reports you need, and get out of your fur as fast as I can manage."

She stared at me for at least ten seconds. "You've got your nerve…"

"The wager? Well … I'm a fox." I thought of the last portal world I'd been on that was remotely like this one, and hoped that some things were constant across the timelines. "Voops are supposed to be smart-asses, aren't they? It's how we compensate…"

Her face changed from a scowl to a neutral expression in a heartbeat. "Sorry, I shouldn't take my problems out on a stranger…and I don't think all … what did you call yourself? A 'voop'?"

"That's a term that I can use – or another fox can use – but when other people use it … well … it's a derogatory term. Your partner may or may not have had it used on him – slang doesn't get everywhere," I explained.

"Like 'cute' for rabbits. I understand, and apologize," she said, her ears flattening and her nose twitching.

"But, which way is your precinct station?"

She turned and pointed, "Eight blocks that way, turn left, and another four blocks – City Hall should then be on your left, the train station on your right, the fountain in front of you – and station is on the other side of the fountain."

"Eight, turn left, four, city hall on left, station on right, fountain in front, station past the fountain. That it?"

"Yes. But you'll regret the bet…go!" she shouted, and bounded off.

I hadn't stretched, but I was betting that this body was going to be good for at least 50 kilometers per hour – a good bet the bunny couldn't match it. And I set off at a dead run after the rabbit.

#

Unfortunately, the bunny was fast. I judged my own speed to be better than 70 kilometers per hour – a pace that I might be able to maintain for a few minutes, at least. But the rabbit was more maneuverable – a key factor on these crowded sidewalks. A couple of near misses, and I had to slow down to a saner pace – and dodge into the street several times. I was only three meters behind her when she reached the precinct doors, and they opened in front of her.

I skidded to a stop and tried to enter the precinct without huffing and puffing like an old-fashioned steam engine. I managed – barely. I could smell the scents of strain boiling off her, but she was smiling, and while she was breathing hard, she was also clearly recovering faster than I was.

"You win…"

"But you gave me a run for the money, Mister Senior Field Agent Reynard," she laughed. "Now, there was something about filling out all the forms and reports that we need when someone intervenes in our jurisdiction…"

"I'd have done it regardless – but I'll get out of your fur as soon as I can manage."

"OOH! Who's your friend, Judy?" an overweight feline at what I assumed was the control point for the public.

I pulled out my ID and flashed it for the feline. "Senior Field Agent Reynard, MBI, here to file reports concerning a jurisdictional question…"

"It's **_not_** a question, Agent Reynard," Lieutenant Hopps interrupted.

"Fair enough," I said, and turned back to face the rabbit. "First, someplace where we can work, then the paper forms and a typewriter…"

"A typewriter?" The feline asked to my back.

"He's not in the system – so he'll need to generate hard copy. We can scan it in later," Hopps answered.

"It may be ancient technology, but worst case – print out the forms you need, and I've got this," I said, taking out a ball point pen as I turned to face the feline.

The feline laughed, and the rolls of fat around his neck jiggled. I kept my face carefully neutral; in my experience, such obesity tended to be self-eliminating.

"C'mon, Agent Reynard, we'll get this done as quickly as possible," Hopps said, and signaled for me to follow; there are times when discretion is the better part of valor, so I followed in the rabbit's footsteps.

#

The form titles were different from my experiences in the LAMPD on another portal world, but the content and style was pretty much the same – police jargon may change slightly from timeline to timeline, but it has to cover the same basic points. Who did what to whom, when and where, what actions did the policeman take, and what needs to be done to follow up. But the volume of paperwork varies from world to world, as does the routing and signatures needed. After filling out such forms on a few dozen such worlds, I've learned how to "fill in all the blanks". It doesn't hurt that half the identities I've assumed over the last – how long has it been? – thirty odd years have been either some variety of flatfoot or private detective. One loses precise track after a while – I don't keep a journal any longer, after having to avoid incarceration in a mental institution because of my earlier journal.

I finished filling forms and signing reports around shift change time – nearly five pm. The rabbit's partner joined us an hour earlier – and managed to fill out a single report form in the time he sat, guzzling some form of particularly aromatic tea.

I leaned back, and stretched; muscles and joints popped – this body was clearly not designed for desk work. I looked over at the other presumed carnivore. "Wilde – I'm new in this town, where can I find a decent meal?"

"Do you like fish, or fowl?" Wilde asked.

"If it can't outrun me, I'll try either," I said.

"There's Koslov's Palace, it you like Russian food – the piroshki there are pretty good. And the borscht is excellent," the fox said, with a smirk on his muzzle that made me dislike him immediately.

I do have a fondness for Russian cuisine – even if his mention of piroshki brought images of "peasant food" to mind. But the body I had this time was hungry, so almost anything would do; I had to assume that intelligent lifeforms were off the menu, so there'd be no ribs or hasenpfeffer anywhere. I thanked the fox, and in response to my request, Lieutenant Hopps printed out a map with directions from the ZPD station to Koslov's.

As I prepared to leave, I leaned over and whispered to Hopps, "go easy on your partner – even if you did win the bet."

She smothered a laugh as I walked out the door; I glanced back over my shoulder, and Wilde looked confused. I whistled a happy tune as I headed out for "Tundratown". I'd have to check-in with the local MBI office, but a quick check of the local calendar showed that I had at least two days before I would be expected. Plenty of time to find another safe portal through which to exit this world for another – assuming that I didn't just decide to stay for a while.

* * *

[1] Arthur C. Clarke's Third Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Corollary to Clarke's Third Law: Any powerful magic is indistinguishable from truly advanced technology. – Author.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Interlude

I pushed the last dish away, resisting the urge to pick it up and lick the last molecules of food off of it. Officer Wilde was definitely wrong – the piroshki were excellent. I'd had better borscht before, but not more than twice. The price was also quite reasonable; if this "Koslov's Palace" was a good example of the local restaurants, I could affort to feed myself for a good three weeks. I might be living under a bridge, but at least I'd be eating well.

I stretched, took a last swallow of the catnip tea, left a decent tip behind, and left with a satisfied smile on my lips. I'd set my watch to the local time zone, and checked it against a local clock both at the start and end of my meal; twenty-four hour day, and it was now 2040 hours Zootopia Standard Time. Time to find "my" apartment and settle down for the night.

As I left the restaurant, I noticed a parked groundcar across the street – with two figures barely visible inside. It was too far from the nearest streetlight for me to identify them. But I've never much cared for people – of any shape – following or keeping on eye on my activities, and I decided to give my watchers something to think about.

I stopped when I was directly opposite the groundcar, took out the magpulse weapon and pointed it so as to "put a shot across the bow" of the groundcar. I held the stunner at the level of my waist, and fingered the firing stud. A low buzz told me that the weapon had discharged – and If the local vehicles had anything like the electronics that I'd expect from a society at this technological level, it was now effectively a stationary metal sculpture.

I turned and walked away in the direction of traffic flow on **_this_** side of the street – and slipped my stunner into the right pants pocket (the pocket on the far side from my "friends" the watchers). As I walked, I heard rising angry voices behind me; they'd tried to start their groundcar, and it was clearly being totally unresponsive. I suppressed a laugh as I strode casually away.

#

When I got to the local tram station, I took the number 3 train to Union Square and switched to the number 6 train to get to City Hall. I got off the tram and jogged over to the Chambers Street stop for the J train, and rode it to Essex street and switched to the F train there. Off the F train at the 6th street stop, then I headed West until I could pick up the A-train, and head off for "my" apartment on 130th street. I checked my "six" at every opportunity, and I appeared to have lost my watchers – I hoped that they were only "mildly" inconvenienced by their loss of motor transport, but at the same time I wasn't particularly sorry I'd taken them off my tail. If we met again, I decided that I would be "sympathetic" regarding their plight.


End file.
